


Sugar Saves The Day

by 3byeol



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Domestic Fluff, HRBB14, Humor, M/M, Post-Quest, The Shire, hobbit reverse big bang 2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3byeol/pseuds/3byeol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bofur likes to think he knows more about hobbits than most -- he is as good as married to one, after all -- but the Shire's annual cooking contest may prove to be the death of him yet.</p>
<p>(Or: In which Bofur destroys food in new and inventive ways, and scandalizes poor Bilbo in the process.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar Saves The Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thejerseydevile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejerseydevile/gifts).



> This was written as part of the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014. My artist (and inspiration for this whole thing) is the lovely thejerseydevile ([ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thejerseydevile/pseuds/thejerseydevile)/[tumblr](http://thejerseydevile.tumblr.com/)). If you enjoy this, especially the art--which, again, is 100% her doing, for the ways of drawing are strange and frightening to me--please drop her a note so she can feel all the love!! <3 I'll be editing the art in here as it comes up in the story/ I wrangle the formatting, so stay tuned!
> 
> (And as a sidenote: This was proofread (by me lmao), but not beta-read. So if you notice any typos or errors, please give me a holler, and I'll fix them. I'm afraid my approach to punctuation has become a laissez-faire 'feels good man' kind of deal since I'm not in school, so any English majors out there feel free to do your worst. ;D )

The first six months of Bofur’s new life in the Shire passed… well, perhaps a bit less smoothly than he had imagined, but nowhere near as poorly as Bilbo had been afraid of whenever he’d had one of his little fits of anxiety during their travel back west from the Lonely Mountain. He’d started going barefoot when the weather was warm, hung up some of his heavier traveling clothes in favor of the lighter linen shirts and trousers the common hobbit preferred, and was becoming nearly as adept with the fiddle as he had been with the flute. Not to say he wasn’t ‘irredeemably dwarvish,’ as Bilbo liked to sigh (usually when Bofur spent too long talking about the strength of Bag End’s structural supports during meals), but on the whole Bofur had settled into his makeshift hobbity life with ease.

 

In fact, there was only one area wherein Bofur was starting to feel left out:

 

The kitchen.

 

Hobbits, Bofur had come to learn, were very particular about their kitchens. And Bofur was starting to suspect that Bilbo Baggins was even more particular than most. Whenever Bilbo was cooking (and that was often, since meals came six times daily) Bofur was banned from the premises until every last dish was plated, on the table, and ready to be served. This was profoundly troubling, for a number of reasons - Bofur had prepared a short list.

 

  1. Bilbo could spend upwards of two hours in the kitchen in one go, which was far too long to expect Bofur to entertain himself without upsetting the neighbors.

  2. Bilbo was at his cutest when cooking - well, actually, he was at his cutest while asleep, not that Bofur would ever embarrass Bilbo by saying so; but cooking came a close second.

  3. Bilbo refused to let Bofur taste-test any of the food before it was finished. No batter, no slightly underdone pork, not even a nip of a raw berry when Bilbo made pie.




 

All in all, a distressing state of affairs.

 

Bofur hadn’t yet decided on the best way to bring this up to Bilbo when things began to move along entirely without his doing. It all started on a week like any other, when he had gone over to Bywater for the Highday market aiming to sell a few odds and ends he’d whittled. Whatever opinions some of the adult hobbits may have held, Bofur’s toys were proving a smash hit with fauntlings. On this particular day, for example, he was entirely bought up within the first hour. He might have headed back to Hobbiton after that, but it seemed a waste of a trip; so he figured he might as well wander about and enjoy himself.

 

Bywater was, even to his eyes, a lovely little town. Its weekly market and seasonal fairs drew large crowds from Hobbiton, Overhill, Frogmorton, even as far away as Budgeford; which meant plenty of people to meet. He was especially fond of the Green Dragon, where he always found a friendly face, and whose beer could stand its ground against any public house in the Blue Mountains. The only downside to these trips was that Bofur had to mind himself while going about the town. He tended to stick out (or up, rather) and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins liked to seek him out whenever she felt nastier than usual. There was no sign of Lobelia yet today, though, and the weather was very kind.

 

Bofur started off by buying a slice of apple tart (nearly as delicious as Bilbo’s) and a leg of mutton, since it was nearing time for lunch. Afterwards, with his belly full, he decided to have a quick chat with the friendly lass from Green Hill who sold berries about a stone’s throw from where he set up shop. She had four wee hobbits who quickly insinuated themselves into the conversation, finally making off with Bofur himself as though he were the most entertaining toy this side of the Brandywine. Fauntlings joined them one-by-two, until he soon had a flock of knee-high critters begging for turns riding his shoulders.

 

(“Never let it be said,” he intoned solemnly, “That Bofur of the Blue Mountains isn’t happy to oblige.”)

 

Bofur was still something of a novelty in the Shire, and having a dwarf for a pack horse was more than enough to keep the interest of any child for a good long while. Experience taught him that he could expect to entertain up until it was time for the next meal of the day, when small hobbit bellies started to grumble. That was why, in the middle of hauling one boy on his shoulders and two more under each arm like a sack of grain, he was genuinely surprised to find something else had managed to distract them long before it was even afternoon tea.

 

“Mister Bofur," said Tulip Twofoot, tugging on one of Bofur's pockets, "what’s that?”

 

“What’s what, lass?”

 

“That!” She flung out an arm, pointing between two of the market stalls and across the river behind them that Bywater was named for. Bofur squinted to see what she meant, gently lowering Posey Goodbody to the ground and pushing Dolman Bolger’s hand away from his eye. On the far side of the water he could make out a procession of carts passing along, pulled by ponies and mules and driven by sunbaked farmers wearing floppy hats. Some of the carts were hauling large objects strapped down so as not to fall off, and some were covered with canvas and had poles sticking out the back. Some even hauled yet more hobbits, packed in like trade goods rather than passengers, practically tumbling over the sides. Others in the market crowd were also stopping to look, a few of them exchanging waves with the cart drivers and passengers. "What are they doing?"

 

“Oh, _I_ know what that is,” said the Green Hill lass’s oldest, voice pitched loud with self-importance. “Mum told me all about it. The farthings are having one big cookery contest this year. It’s going to be in Hobbiton and _I’m_ going to enter 'cos I’m old enough.”

 

“Me, too!” cried Tulip. She bounced on her toes, craning to see around one of the other children. "I'm going to do it!"

 

“You can’t, you’re too little.”

 

Tulip’s face screwed up and she let go of Bofur’s pocket, the two warning signs that told him tears were imminent. He bent down--carefully, so as not to throw Dolman off his perch--and ruffled her curls. “Don’t worry, darling. The most important thing are two ready hands and the heart to try. And you have both of those, aye? I bet if you asked your mam, you both could enter together.” From what he had seen, most fauntlings began helping their parents in the kitchen once they were old enough to hold a spoon. He hoped Mrs. Twofoot would be willing to enter the contest if little Tulip wanted to participate so badly.

 

Tulip hooked a finger in her mouth, thinking over Bofur’s words with a startling amount of solemnity for an 8-year old. “I don’t want to do it with my mam,” she said, echoing Bofur’s accent. “Can’t I try it with you, Mister Bofur? You’re old.”

 

Bofur bit his lip to keep from laughing at the wee thing. He should have felt insulted, really. A dwarf of 146 was nowhere near  _old_ \--but in hobbit years he was practically ancient, true enough.

 

He was about to tell little Tulip that she should try talking to her mother first before she went about making plans, but he never got the chance. A frilly shadow tapped its way up behind him, and Bofur felt the threatening thump of an umbrella against the back of his knee. He fought off the urge to groan out loud. Lobelia must have sighted him during the excitement. Of all the timing! He would prefer being strung up on a clothesline upside-down like a pair of trousers and left to hang there all night, if it meant he didn't have to talk to her. He always tried to be polite, of course; but frustration got the better of him at times.

 

“Come now, sweetheart," said Lobelia, in a simpering voice that Bofur knew at once was not meant for him. "You don't want to go about with the wrong sort. They’d never let someone like _this_ \--” another thump to Bofur's knee, “in to make a mockery of our cookery contest. Now would they?”

 

Bofur grimaced. The fauntlings looked between him and Lobelia, faces blank in confusion, as if they needed a cue to tell them how to react. Tulip was outright staring, her eyes wide and dark like a startled animal. Lobelia had apparently never learned the lesson about staying silent if you couldn't say anything kind. Bofur hoped none of the children decided to cast themselves in her mold, as one Lobelia in the Shire was unpleasant enough as it was.

 

Bofur stood up straight and turned towards her, trying to look as though he weren't very bothered. "I wouldn't say that," he told her. "We dwarves can be quite handy with the stove and spoon, I'll have you know. Any anyway, I don't think anyone likes the cooking so much as the  _eating_ part of it. Isn't that right, darlings?"

 

Lobelia made a little snort at that, and turned her nose up in the air so far that her hat looked ready to slip off her head. Bofur braced himself for whatever she would throw at him next, but he was saved by the nervous little titters from the children around him. Lobelia looked quite sour when she heard them laughing, and she left with only a few more parting shots muttered darkly beneath her breath for him to hear. Bofur didn't give her the gift of responding. He was too relieved to be seeing her go, with her equally dour husband trailing behind her.

 

The market had already returned to its normal pace, so their little scene hadn't attracted too much attention. All the same, Bofur felt a bit sore about it until he ran into some other sellers that he knew fairly well, who called out to him as he went by. He saw Bell Gamgee, who stopped just long enough to greet him before she was late for an appointment at the tailor, and then Dolman Bolger finally clambered down to the ground so he could lead Bofur and the other children onto the river bank and teach them how to make mud pies. It all put Bofur back in the right sort of mood, so when afternoon tea finally came round and the stalls began to pack up, he was sad once more to see another Highday go. He dropped in at the Green Dragon for a cup of black tea and a warm biscuit before he headed home, enjoying the warm summer wind and the chance to stretch, unburdened by anything more substantial than his little coin purse, for the mile or so he had to walk back to Hobbiton.

 

Bilbo was there to greet him when he reached Bag End--not that they had planned it--but he was out scooping up the post from the letterbox as Bofur trotted up the way to the door. "Hello, love," Bofur said, feeling a little spring come into his step. "Have you missed me?"

 

"Not an ounce," said Bilbo. The tips of his ears had gone pink, though, which told Bofur all that he truly needed to know.

 

Bofur grinned and led the way inside, making a point to wipe his feet on the rug before he could be fussed at for it. Bilbo made a beeline for his writing desk as soon as he was through the door. He had the little pile of letters neatly tucked under one arm, and he slid the fattest envelope out of the pile and began to turn it over in his hands. Bofur nearly asked what it was for, since it wasn't like Bilbo to be so preoccupied; but both of them did have spells where they got unusually busy with a project. Bilbo would probably tell him all about it soon enough. "I see you're hard at it," Bofur said instead. "I'll leave you be until dinner, shall I?"

 

"Oh, no, no," Bilbo said, quickly glancing up. "I meant to ask you, how was the market?"

 

“Bywater was very fine,” Bofur answered brightly. “Not even that aged cousin of yours cast a shadow on it. I think I’ll have to start making some more dolls, though. They're more popular with you hobbits than they ever were in the mountains.”

 

“Dolls would be lovely. Poppy’s children are absolutely mad for them. But Lobelia isn’t _aged_ ,” Bilbo protested, breaking the envelope’s seal. “She’s younger than I am.”

 

“Aged in spirit, my darling, aged in spirit. She may look young, but her heart is as shriveled as a raisin. Or one of those slugs salted in the garden.”

 

“Oh, honestly.” Bilbo scoffed, but he was smiling now. He dropped the rest of the unopened post down onto his desk and looked up at Bofur, finally giving him his full attention. “What did she say to you?”

 

“A whole lot of nonsense,” Bofur said vaguely, waving his hand as though he were shooing away a fly. “Nothing to worry you about.”

 

“Bofur…”

 

“Cross my heart! She said something about how dwarves have no place cooking or entering contests, not that I’ll lose any sleep over it, and then something about how she hopes all your silver teaspoons tarnish. Joke’s on her, I think half of them are still hidden in her china hutch.”

 

Bofur was hoping for a laugh, but Bilbo didn’t even smile. He grew very still and very quiet, all except for the letter slowly crumpling in his hands. Bofur had never seen him looking so thunderous. It was actually quite alarming to see, and Bofur wondered if he should go and fetch someone.

 

“She said _what_?” Bilbo finally choked out.

 

“I told you, darling, a whole lot of nonsense. It--”

 

Bilbo cut him off with a sharp gesture. “She had no right! I don’t know where she thought she was getting off, saying something like that to you!” He looked at Bofur, and his face cleared a little bit. “You and I are going to prove her wrong, Bofur. You are going to enter that contest, and you are going to _win_.”

 

Bofur was so surprised at Bilbo’s vehemence that it took him a few moments before he could even string together three words. He had never seen Bilbo looking so determined. "Listen, I wasn't bothered by any of it," he protested. "Not really. And so you don't need to bother with any of it either. I haven't the foggiest what this contest is all about, anyway--"

 

"Each one of the farthings has one, every year. Every ten years we all get together for a grand one, I'm sure I've mentioned it to you before."

 

"Aye, well, it all sounds very lovely. But--"

 

"I'm so sorry, Bofur, but I need to get started on supper now." Bilbo gave him a comforting smile, the same kind that Bofur had seen him give to his pony whenever it got spooked by a noise on the road. "You don't need to worry about a thing. Bagginses have placed in the West Farthing's contest every year for the last century. This will be no different, you'll see."

 

Bofur opened his mouth to argue one more time, but it was no use. Bilbo was already heading for the kitchen. And in any case, anything else Bofur might try to say tonight would fall on deaf ears, he could tell. Bilbo rarely got into moods like this one, but when he did he was more stubborn to move than a mountain itself. Bofur was no more than a nice spring wind, blowing right around the spurs and peaks without actually affecting it one bit.

 

_Confusticate and bebother these hobbits!_  Bofur thought to himself. What in the world had they gotten him into now?


End file.
